


loyalty and leverage

by judyjargon



Series: Felannie Arrow AU [5]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Arrow AU, F/M, Golden Deer Shenanigans, Pre-Relationship, blink-and-you'll-miss-it marihilda, felix's entire inner monologue might as well be expletives whoops, happy fun plot and story progression, ingrid is very done, no beta we die like Glenn, no knowledge of arrow needed, please read series in order
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:42:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22489627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/judyjargon/pseuds/judyjargon
Summary: Pulling punches has never been Felix’s thing, and he’s not about to start now, “What’s The Nabatean Company, and why has Aegis given it four million dollars?”Rodrigue’s expression shutters closed. His jaw clenches as he runs his hands down his face, “Felix… You don’t know what you’re talking about.”Anger, cold and sharp, splits right through him, “I know exactly what I’m talking about. Why has Blaiddyd given the same amount to Agarthan Corporation? Why are you taking a business call with their CEO on your personal phone?”-Felix searches for answers. There are some casualties along the way.
Relationships: Annette Fantine Dominic & Ingrid Brandl Galatea, Annette Fantine Dominic/Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Dorothea Arnault & Sylvain Jose Gautier, Felix Hugo Fraldarius & Ingrid Brandl Galatea, Felix Hugo Fraldarius & Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius
Series: Felannie Arrow AU [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1591543
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	1. part i

“Felix, you realize that you’re going to have to _talk_ to him, right?”

Ingrid has to shout over the clanging of the metal, determined to be heard by the stubborn man. 

Midnight reconnaissance and hacking hadn’t gotten them anywhere, not that she had expected it to. The former had gotten Felix nearly killed, although it had brought them Annette. The latter had nearly driven Annette to insanity, what with Felix’s constant nagging and the impeccable security of both Blaidydd and Agarthan. 

Not that they knew what Agarthan Corp. was, or The Nabatean Company. Only that Blaiddyd had funneled a massive sum of money towards Agarthan after the _Areadbhar_ had sunk, and that Aegis had been trickling in a similar amount towards Nabatean over many years.

None of it added up of course—Both seemed to be holding companies but attempting any searches of either company had left them empty-handed. It baffled Ingrid—both of the multibillion corporations were funneling mass amounts of money towards companies that didn’t exist, and there hadn’t been any nasty exposes yet. 

Felix drops to the ground, leaving only the sounds of the air conditioning and the clacking of Annette’s keys, “Not an option. My father isn’t the most… conducive. And he certainly won’t want to tell me anything.”

“In case you forgot, he’s the only person that we have access to. Patricia is untouchable, and Sylvian’s dad has some of the best security in the entirety of Faerghus. We can’t get to them.” 

Felix doesn’t respond, he merely starts unwrapping his hands. Ingrid feels her temper flare.

“As much as I hate to admit it, I can’t get in Agarthan, Nabatean, or Blaidydd. It’s almost like their security is… alive,” Annette has stopped her typing and swiveled around in her chair, tendrils of hair falling into her face from her hairline. The same frustrated expression she’d been wearing for the better part of the month still adorned her face, “I’m with Ingrid on this one.” 

He sets his hands against the metal table and leans his weight onto it, facing away from both of them. In fact, he’s staring at the box where the— _his_ —Hero’s Relic is; hidden in a nondescript crate in the farthest corner, if the worst were to happen. 

Ingrid still can’t believe that she had missed the whole ordeal, and she’d had to pull information from Annette’s secondhand account thanks to Felix’s unwillingness to speak about it. The fact of the matter was that he not only _could_ wield a Hero’s Relic, but the Sothis League had elected to leave it with him in the end. It utterly baffles her. 

Not that he’s said anything on the subject since it happened, anyway. He’d been absurdly tightlipped about the League, only sharing that he’d seen Atticus Gautier there and nothing else. 

Sylvain comes to mind. She misses him; it’s been too long since she’s really seen him, and she misses Dorothea, too. Ingrid’s been spending so much time in this basement with Felix and Annette, the outside world has slowly started to trickle away. It’s a frightening epiphany. 

But Felix finally speaks, and so she’s pulled from her thoughts.

“We don’t know what he knows. Questioning him could do nothing more than put a target on his back,” He argues, standing up tall and finally turning to face them. “It’s not worth the risk unless we know what he does and doesn’t know.” 

Without a response, Annette merely turns around in her chair and begins typing again, “What’s your login for Aegis, Felix? I know that you have one even if you don’t use it.” 

He pauses for only a moment, “User is the default. Password is Glenn with a capital GL and a comma at the end. Don’t sell it on the Internet.”

Ingrid bites her tongue. 

Only the sound of Annette’s keys echoes off the concrete walls, rhythmic and oddly soothing, “Got it. Let’s see here…”

It’s a usual sight—Felix looming over Annette’s left shoulder while Ingrid leans over her right. Annette stops typing only long enough to tuck a piece of Felix’s bangs back, which is also usual. According to her, it obstructs the view of her left monitor. Sometimes, she’ll joke that he needs a haircut, but not tonight. 

There’s what seems to be dozens of emails opened up, all originating from Rodrigue’s email. At this point, Ingrid doesn’t even want to bother asking how Annette had gotten in so quickly, even with Felix’s high-level clearance at her disposal. 

Some are boring emails, possible acquisitions and, every so often, a ticket confirmation for the Fhirdiad Opera Company. Others are interesting, but not what they’re looking for—in-progress deals and quarterly reports. 

Annette does something and the emails narrow down significantly. They’re all out of the company now and sent to either a Blaiddyd or Gautier email address. But there’s still a lot, and there’s no way they can comb through all of them tonight if Felix still wants to go out. 

The IT specialist turns her head towards Felix, who swivels to look at her. Their faces are close enough that she’s surprised neither of them is cross-eyed. At this rate, Ingrid might just have to smash their heads together—but that’s an issue for another day. 

“This is as far as I feel comfortable narrowing down without possibly eliminating potential evidence. I can go through these tomorrow if you still want to go out tonight.”

Ingrid hears what she’s really saying. Felix’s been bouncing off the walls all afternoon—sharpening swords and arrowheads, climbing the salmon ladder until even Annette had asked him to stop, and giving Ingrid more bruises than she can count from sparring. It’s subtle, since he doesn’t like to appear as anything but calm and in control, but they both know better. 

Translation: _Go away before you break something._

Annette turns her head and types with one hand. Another tab pops up, “In fact, there’s an armed robbery happening on Loog and 26th right about… now.”

She looks back at him and smiles, falsely demure in her clear subject change. Felix tilts his head, communicating in that silent way that they do. 

He stands straight and beings to walk towards where he keeps his weapons. “I know what you’re doing,” he calls over his shoulder, an odd sort of begrudged fondness to his words.

Annette spins in her chair to look at Ingrid as soon as he’s walked away, lips pursed and shoulders shaking as she holds in her laughter.

Ingrid doesn’t bother to. It all spills out of her.

-

“ _I still can’t believe that you’re wearing a comm in your own home. You’re having a conversation with your dad, Felix, not taking down the cartel.”_

Annette’s voice rings clear through his comm, drowning out the sound of the engine as the gates for the manor open up in front of him. Precisely manicured hedges and an artistical cobblestone pathway greets him, He rolls to a stop in front of the ridiculous fountain and pulls the helmet off his head, “You’ll get the best recording through this. I don’t want to compromise audio quality for discretion.”

Felix dismounts and hands the key to the housekeeper who greets him. He doesn’t recognize him, but between being gone for five years and barely being home since returning, most of the staff is a stream of faces that all look the same. 

He still asks, “Do you know where my father is right now?”

The man smiles kindly, “Mr. Fraldarius is in his office.”

Felix gives a tightlipped smile and pushes open the ornate front doors. That damn table is there, along with the photo in its new frame and a fresh bouquet of flowers. Part of him craves to flip it again, but he does every time that he sees it, so he breezes by and up the staircase, climbing the stairs two at a time. He doesn’t even bother with his shoes.

This time, his father actually has his office door closed. He knocks. 

“Come in.”

His father stands at the window that overlooks his mother’s flower garden, now in full bloom with the spring. Rodrigue doesn’t turn to look at him. There’s a phone—his _personal_ phone—held up to his ear as he speaks. 

“Patricia, everything will work itself out. Nabatean is nearly out of Fhirdiad, and then we can rest easy.” Rodrigue starts to turn away from the window and towards where Felix stands at the door, “Yes, I’m at home right now… I know you’re concerned, but with Atticus and—” 

Rodrigue turns and finally makes eye contact with Felix, “Let me call you back.” 

The older man hangs up the phone and sets it face down on his desk, “Felix, it’s good to see you.” His smile is strained, but it always is around Felix. 

Felix doesn’t bother with the pleasantries, “We need to talk.” 

That smile grows even tighter, more teeth than lip, “What did you want to talk about?”

Pulling punches has never been Felix’s thing, and he’s not about to start now, “What’s The Nabatean Company, and why has Aegis given it four million dollars?”

_“Holy Goddess, Felix, you could’ve eased into it!”_

Felix ignores her. 

Rodrigue’s expression shutters closed. His jaw clenches as he runs his hands down his face, “Felix… You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Anger, cold and sharp, splits right through him, “I know _exactly_ what I’m talking about. Why has Blaiddyd given the same amount to Agarthan Corporation? Why are you taking a business call with their CEO on your personal phone?”

“ _Felix—_ ”

“Do not ask these questions. You don’t want to know the answer to them.”

“No. _You_ don’t want me to know the answers—"

" _Felix, lis—”_

“—You knew that Glenn was going to die on that boat. You know and you did _nothing_ and all I have ever fucking wanted was to know why.”

The world seems to freeze for a moment. Rodrigue forgets whatever it is he was going to say, eyes wide in disbelief and horror as he darts his eyes away from Felix’s. 

“ _Felix, you have incoming!”_

He raises a hand to the Bluetooth piece in his ear, whipping his head around. Windows, door… there were too many entrances. He can’t cover them all with his father there. 

A deep purple, oily spell shatters through the window Rodrigue had been standing at, showering glittering bits of glass across the ornate carpet. 

Shit. Shit, shit, _shit_. That’s dark magic. 

Without a bow or flechettes, Felix can’t get rid of whoever’s shooting Bohr X from the garden. He tackles his father to the ground and stands again, scanning the room for something he can use as a weapon. A fireball rips through the wooden door. 

His hand snatches the fire poker—there only for decoration—from its stand next to the empty fireplace, flipping it once to feel its weight. It’s all the time he has before he ducks to avoid a Miasma. 

It goes between his assailant’s third and fourth rib. It doesn’t come out when he pulls. Some filthy curse leaves his lips as he turns and— 

—and watches as his father sucks the life out of someone with Nosferatu. 

Rodrigue scrambles up from the ground and to the locked armoire in the corner—the one that Felix and Glenn had never been allowed to open. A white glyph glows bright and the lock crumbles into pieces. 

The doors nearly fly off the hinges, banging loudly into the wall as he yanks them open. A sword glows blue as soon as he touches it, tossing it through the air towards Felix. 

It goes quickly from there. Something about this sword invigorates him—revitalizes him in a way that he recognizes from when Claude’s Crest activates. 

All their assailants are magic users or assassin-types. It doesn’t matter. Felix fells every one that dares to cross him, and so they fall. They fall until there are no more. 

“F _elix, are you okay? I don’t have eyes in the office.”_

He flicks the blood off the strange sword in his hand, raising his opposite hand to press the Bluetooth piece, “Yeah. A lot of surprises today.”

Someone sets a hand on his shoulder and he nearly drives the sword through them, only stopping at the sight of midnight blue hair. Rodrigue’s face is grim.

“We’re not safe here. I’ll explain once we leave.”

The childish part of him wants to stomp his foot in indignity. That’s what he might’ve done five years ago before the League had trained away that part of him. 

So Felix merely nods and steps over the bodies littering the office floor. He refuses to look down as he does. 

-

Sylvain doesn’t know what’s going on.

Honestly, it’s not a new statement. He knows that he comes off as air-headed, breezing through life as a socialite off a credit card paid by his parents. It’s not an entirely inaccurate statement, he’s well-aware, but it’s still a facade.

It’s the facade that he keeps up when Felix arrives at lunch constantly late, often looking like death and—on one very memorable occasion—with a nasty black eye and split lip. It would be funny that Felix thinks he accepts the lies that spill from his mouth if it weren’t so concerning. 

His best friend disappears for five years and returns unceremoniously. Sylvain has to essentially wrangle him out anywhere, and yet he’s never home. And there had been that incident at the auction too. Neither Dorothea or he had completely forgiven Felix for that stupid stunt. Something doesn’t add up. He’d be a fool not to see that.

He explains all of this to Dorothea, who aimlessly spins the spoon in her mug with a sigh, “I don’t know, Sylvain. It’s probably best to just… let him be.” 

Sunlight gently streams through the windows of _von Martritz_ , reflecting off the silver spoons and glittery floors. They’re probably there far too often, given that Mercedes doesn’t bother asking for their tea orders anymore, but Sylvain doesn’t care.

He follows the curls of Dorothea’s hair with his eyes, drumming his fingers against the side of his mug as he does, “Well, I don’t know about Felix, but I know how _you_ are.” 

A wink accentuates the statement. It’s largely empty. She gives him a sour look, “Don’t even start, Gautier. That doesn’t work on me.”

Well, it was worth a shot.

It’s not a new conversation. Sylvain apprehensively brings up a topic, gets a response he doesn’t necessarily like, and meanders his way through a lazy deflection. She always calls him out without preamble. Sometimes, Ingrid ends up dragging them both out of a dive bar on the outskirts of the Tailteans—he usually gets his wallet pickpocketed on those days. It doesn’t matter.

He sighs and leans against the back of the booth, eyes drifting to stare aimlessly towards the other patrons, “He hasn’t always been like this, remember? Before Glenn died, he—“

Sylvain holds onto one visage of Felix; a razor-sharp moment in the haze of ‘Before the _Areadbhar_.’

It’s the end of the Great Tree Moon, or maybe it’s the start of the Harpstring Moon. That doesn’t matter. The air is tepid and a light breeze blows through the gardens behind Fraldarius Manor, boxes overflowing with hydrangeas and gladiolus and a thousand other flowers that Sylvain doesn’t know. 

Glenn isn’t home, and Rodrigue is holed away in his home office. The world hasn’t fallen apart yet. The willow tree they all lie underneath provides shelter from the glaring sun. 

Sylvain leans against the trunk, texting another girl in the endless stream. Ingrid twirls Dorothea’s hair between her fingers, who has her head in the blonde’s lap as she attempts to teach Dimitri how to make a flower crown. Felix lies on the grass, eyes closed and head tilted towards a sunbeam streaming through the branches. 

Dimitri says something—either a poor attempt at a joke or some form of self-deprecation, he doesn’t remember exactly—and Dorothea’s laughter gets swept into the wind. Felix doesn’t move or open his eyes, but his lips curl up, sharp features softening.

It’s one of the last times Sylvain remembers him— _any_ of them—smiling. A real one. Not the fake shit that he throws at them now. That image of Felix, of _all_ of them, in the sunlight, feels a lifetime away, not six years. 

He stops and starts again, “Before Glenn died, he used to smile.”

Dorothea reaches across the booth and grabs his hand, intertwining her fingers through his. The glitter of her manicure reflects in the light, along with that ring Ingrid had gotten her all that time ago. She doesn’t say anything. 

They sit there for a while—this is the designated time they make for each other, every Tuesday at ten in the morning for tea. It had started after Felix had disappeared, and they’d kept it ever since, over five long years now. Like always, Sylvain watches as the clock creeps closer and closer to eleven.

Dorothea squeezes his hand once and stands, smoothing out the wrinkles in her pencil skirt, “I have to get going now, but take care of yourself. If you’re gonna get drunk, don’t do it alone.” 

An inelegant snort escapes him as he stands, extending his arms for a hug. He rests his chin atop her head, crushing the delicately coiffed curls, “Never. See you this weekend.” 

She leans up and plants a kiss on his cheek, immediately turning away to grab her purse off the table. Her nails click against the screen of her phone as she does a quick scroll. Sylvain knows that she’s looking through her email based on the way she frowns. 

One last glance up at him, a little smile on her face as she starts to back away, “Take care, Sylvain.” 

Sylvain finds himself standing there until she’s long gone, wondering what he could possibly do with the rest of his day. His father is expecting him at GH, but subverting his father’s expectations is his favorite pastime. 

He’d driven himself today since their driver had called in due to a family emergency. He spins the keyring around his pointer finger as he walks towards where he’s parked, scrolling through social media. He _is_ a socialite, after all. When he climbs into the driver’s seat, he’s still staring at his phone. 

Something clicks behind him. 

“Not a sound.”

There’s a rag over his mouth and the stench of chemicals in his lungs. He chokes on it.

Everything goes black.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next time:
> 
> Rodrigue's eyes widen, "Atticus, what have you done?"


	2. part ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had to be mages, who were never dumb enough to get in range of his sword and made such a damn racket. Not that there wasn’t a different sort of mastery to magic but… it was detaching. It'd always bothered Felix how a mage could kill someone with a straight face, utterly unfazed as they melted flesh and shattered bone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahahaha i'm not dead!! sorry this took forever, but quarantine has given me more time to write, so have this! it's certainly not the best thing i've ever written, but if i keep staring at it my eyes will bleed...

Annette doesn’t bite her nails, but if she were to ever start, it’d be now. 

She’s never even _been_ on the same floor as Rodrigue Fraldarius, much less in the same room as the man. Her job is in IT—approximately forty floors below where the executives' lounge—and it’s rare that she ever leaves her little corner of the building. 

Except Rodrigue Fraldarius is now standing five feet in front of her in a blood-spattered dress shirt, hair tied up in an eerily similar way to Felix’s on his angrier days. It’s an almost jarring image, except the silhouette is all wrong. He’s too tall, and the slope of his shoulders is too smooth. Felix is all sharp lines and jagged edges.

Huh. Maybe Ingrid isn’t lying when she says that Annette stares too much.

Annette rolls her bottom lip between her teeth as Felix slams open and shut different drawers, collecting all the things he uses to clean his swords. The two of them had brought one back with them. It’s entirely different from the eastern blades that Felix usually wields. It also glows blue in his hands—too similar to the way that the Hero’s Relics light up. 

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Rodrigue smiles and extends a hand towards her. The smile on her face is strained.

“Annette Dominic. I work in IT at Aegis.” 

He nods as though everything now makes sense, “Ah, I see. Well, thank you for helping my son, Miss Dominic.”

Felix slams the bottle of oil onto the metal tabletop, the sound echoing through the damp basement. Annette jumps at the sound, but Rodrigue simply raises a brow. 

“I’m keeping this,” Felix announces, “and you can have that damn plate of bone after telling me who the _hell_ is throwing around dark magic in my city.” 

“How did you end up with the Sothis League?”

Annette sees Felix’s fingers flex in irritation, “I said please. Who still knows how to cast Bohr X like that?”

The two have a stare-off, the tension in the air wrapping itself around her throat and causing her skin to crawl with discomfort. Annette turns away from their conversation and back towards her computer screen, where she’s scrubbing security footage of Fraldarius Manor for whatever she can find. 

The mages—which was something Annette would have to unpack later—had all worn black plague doctor-like masks, denying her any chances of running facial recognition. Not that she had expected facial recognition to provide anything fruitful even if she were able. 

The headache behind her eyes starts to worsen. She hadn’t expected everything to be rainbows and flowers, sure, but she hadn’t exactly been prepared for magic and her only college history class to become pertinent. 

All tomes containing magic had been burned centuries ago when the King of Fodlan at that time had been… questionable at best. It had started with the Fhirdiad School of Sorcery, and eventually, the books became so scarce that the few that did still exist were unreadable to the modern eye. Deciphering Ancient Fodlanese was hard enough—no researcher in the world was brave enough to add intricate glyphs rife with volatile magic to that. 

Well, that’s what she’d been told at least. Evidently, magic still was in use, and in advanced forms no less. 

“What do you know about the Sothis League, son? What have they told you of their history?” 

Annette turns back around, eyes darting back and forth as though watching a tennis match as opposed to a conversation. Felix drags a black rag down the length of the blade—it still stains red. 

“The League was created by the Archbishop to safeguard the Relics and maintain order,” Felix states it as fact, something inarguable. Annette has a feeling that Rodrigue is about to argue anyway. 

“The Sothis League was created to hide the war between the Nabateans and Agarthans, or at least what’s left of them. The Archbishop thought it best not to directly interfere, only to contain it.”

Felix’s motions stop for only a moment, “What does that have to do with Aegis?”

Rodrigue sighs, as though this conversation has aged him ten years, “Aegis, amongst other companies, was created to act as a facilitator for The Nabatean Company. The Agarthans had been puppeteering as a holding company for years.”

“I suppose that includes Gautier Holdings?” Felix bites, the sword gleaming an eerie silver in the industrial light, “And Blaiddyd Industries?”

Rodrigue’s expression darkens, “It used to. Blaiddyd was—”

A phone rings. 

Rodrigue sighs and pulls his from his back pocket, brow furrowing in confusion at the caller ID. He holds up a finger and turns, putting the phone up to his ear, “What’s going on? I’m a bit busy at…”

Annette tunes him out and stands, splaying a tentative hand across Felix’s shoulder, “What are you thinking?”

He turns his head to look at her for a moment, then flicks his eyes away, “My family legacy is a damned lie.”

Annette winces. She has nothing to say to that.

“Sylvain is _what_?”

Felix’s head shoots over to where Rodrigue stands, an outraged look on his face. 

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” His eyes flick up to meet Felix’s, “and I’m bringing company. Don’t do anything.”

Rodrigue lowers the phone from his ear and tucks it back into his pocket, “Where do you have the Shield?”

“What’s happened to Sylvain?” Felix shoots back, something venomous leaking off his tone as if daring his father to deflect the question. 

“The Agarthans have him. It seems as though Atticus has been found out as well.”

If anything else happens, Annette will pass out. 

Felix doesn’t respond, instead stalking over to the crate that holds the Shield and tearing it open. It lights up red in his hands, a wispy, smoke-like quality to the glow. He tosses it at Rodrigue, “I don’t want anything to do with that damn thing.”

All Annette can do is watch as the two men weaponize themselves—bows and quivers and swords, and even the one lance that Felix keeps finds itself in Rodrigue’s hands. If she didn’t know better, she would think she’s seeing double. 

There’s a strange sort of tension in the way that Felix holds himself—as if he’s a coiled spring, deathly still with a held rage. It makes her want to look away, unable to handle the tension that stifles the air. Even in their darkest times, she’s never seen him this way. 

Felix holds his hand out for his comm, the one she keeps charging next to her computer, without looking at her. A part of her sighs in relief. She pulls the earpiece from its plug and sets it in his outstretched hand, curling her fingers around his palm as he goes to move away. He stops and finally looks at her, brow furrowed and something like irritation on his features. 

“Don’t do anything stupid, Felix. Get me the address and I’ll route Ingrid your way.” 

Felix shakes his head, “I don’t want her anywhere near this.”

Even so, some of that tension falls from him. She takes that small victory, watching as he places the device in his ear. Annette turns towards her screens to make sure it’s all in working order, giving him a thumbs up over her shoulder. Then they’re ascending the stairs, and then they’re gone. 

It’s still broad daylight—in fact, it’s barely past noon. 

Annette pulls the bottle of ibuprofen across her desk and takes two. 

-

Felix thinks he might die. 

Not in battle, not from a sword or a spell, but from the way his heart races and his blood simmers. So many secrets, and so many casualties in the process. What was the point in all of this? He certainly didn’t believe in this supposed war. Not if it brought his friends into danger. Not Sylvain. 

Which is where he is now—standing in the rafters of an abandoned warehouse in the Tailteans with his bow drawn, fletching held against his cheek as his father approaches the warehouse with Atticus, opposite the figure tied to a chair. 

Felix has never seen Sylvain look so… afraid. Even from his far vantage point, he can see the way that Sylvain’s shoulders tremble, defiance written in the lift of his chin despite the cloth wrapped through his mouth. Seeing him there, breathing labored and hands tied together, is something he won’t ever forget. The wrongness of it all crawls into his throat and stifles the air in his lungs, squeezing his sternum until he chokes on it. He’ll never admit to the way that his hands shake. 

“F _elix, you need to tell me what the fuck is going on right now.”_

Ingrid’s voice—sharp and precise, carefully layered over fear—cuts through the comm. Felix couldn’t respond if he wanted to, listening to the door screech open loud enough to wake the dead. His father and Atticus both waltz in, dressed as if going to make a business deal rather than pay a ransom for Sylvain. _Sylvain_. 

He doesn’t even recognize the collection of people scattered through the structure, only vaguely noting the same masks and uniforms worn by their assailants back at the manor—which means mages. Mages who, should they see him, will be able to shoot him down from the rafters like a bird from the sky. 

Life was much less complicated before he’d known that dark magic was still in use. 

“I’ve done what you’ve asked, Thales.”

Atticus Gautier’s voice reverberates through the metal building as he stalks towards the white-haired man who stands in front of Sylvain. Those mages raise their hands and deep purple glyphs light in the air, causing the CEO to stop in his tracks. Felix doesn’t know how he missed the lance that the man had been holding this whole time.

“Thank you for bringing us the last of the Fraldarius line. You’re dismissed.” 

Rodrigue’s eyes widen, “Atticus, what have you done?”

The sound of glyphs echoes through the metal structure.

Felix jumps from his position in the rafters onto one of the adjacent storage units, narrowly avoiding the dark magic spell that destroys the very spot he’d been in only moments before. The metal beneath him shakes under the impact, clanging in the wake of his quick steps. 

_SylvainSylvainSylvainSylv—_

He rips down his hood and sprints for Sylvain, who jerks violently against his restraints. Felix pulls the dagger from his side and ducks underneath a spell, shivering against the freezing cold of the path it leaves in its wake. 

Sylvain’s eyes widen and his breath hitches, disbelief coating his features, “Felix?”

“Not now,” He grunts in response, slicing through the restraints and yanking him to his feet, only to immediately shove Sylvain to the floor as a nasty-looking Mire flies over their heads. Felix pulls the bow off his back and retaliates, lip curling at the sound of flesh meeting metal. 

It _had_ to be mages, who were never dumb enough to get in range of his sword and made such a damn racket. Not that there wasn’t a different sort of mastery to magic but… it was detaching. It'd always bothered Felix how a mage could kill someone with a straight face, utterly unfazed as they melted flesh and shattered bone.

He whips his head around to face Sylvain, expecting to see fear and terror, maybe a bit of disappointment too. Instead, he’s greeted with quiet contemplation—there’s a furrow to the redhead’s brow that doesn’t appear often. But Felix doesn’t have time to think about that now. 

“ _The police are getting calls about the noise. I’m changing the addresses as the calls come in but that’ll only work for so long,”_ Annette chimes in, having been oddly quiet since the fighting started. “ _And if the League is still in town, they won’t be happy.”_

 _“_ Not my damn fault,” Felix growls, nocking and releasing another arrow. The mages are shooting to kill—this had been a death trap, carefully designed to end two familial lines of those still capable of wielding the Relics. “Byleth can kiss my—”

Felix doesn’t get to finish before something hits him—he’s not sure what it is, only that it’s ugly and tears into every bit of flesh it can find. Dark magic is the antithesis of light magic—only capable of destruction and decay, and he can feel it now. 

It must’ve been a strong spell. Miasma certainly doesn’t hurt this much, he knows this from having sparred with Lysithea in the past. His muscles scream as he fires off another arrow, far slower than he knows he’s capable of. Goddamnit.

These mages just seem to keep reappearing, no matter how many of them he kills, “How many are there?” Felix demands, sliding to the side to avoid another spell. “I’m tired of these mages.”

“ _I_ _don’t know where they keep coming from! Someone must be… teleporting them in or something.”_ Annette replies, the clacking of her keyboard ringing loud and clear through the comm. 

He reaches over his shoulder for another arrow only to come up empty-handed. A curse leaves his lips as he slings his bow over his shoulder and slides his sword from its sheath. “There’s a spell for that but it’s considered…”

As it dawns on him Felix immediately begins looking for a white glyph, skimming over the countless Nosferatus that Rodrigue is casting and looking for another one. It’s all deep purples until…

_There!_

If it weren’t for the fact that it was annoying, he’d be impressed at the sheer amount of Warping that single mage is doing. Every mage seems highly skilled, and Felix, unfortunately, hasn’t had much experience with them, limited only to when Lysithea had deigned to come to the training grounds instead of hiding herself away in the library to study the texts even more. He tenses, ready to make a mad dash to the other side of the building when— 

“Felix!"

Felix jerks back around, having nearly forgotten about the whole reason he’d come to this damned place anyway. Sylvain’s ducked behind a pillar, unarmed and unable to deal with the madness surrounding them now. Felix presses two fingers against his comm.

“Get Ingrid over here. I’ll be fine.”

“ _Felix, I swear to—”_

He yanks the earpiece out and shoves it into the redhead’s hands, knowing somewhere in the back of his mind that the two women are going to give him _hell_ for doing that, “Annette will guide you out.”

Sylvain’s eyes widen almost comically, even as he fumbles to place it in his own ear, “Wait, you mean that cute IT girl who—”

Felix doesn’t pay attention long enough to hear whatever garbage undoubtedly spills from Sylvain’s mouth, turning back on his heels and setting his sights on the Warp mage once again. There’s no Annette in his ear to watch his back through the cameras or an Ingrid behind him this time—but that’s fine. He reverses his sword grip and tenses on the balls of his feet.

And then he’s _gone_. 

—

Sylvain is very, very, _very_ confused.

Firstly, Felix is holding a _sword_ after using a _bow and arrow_.

Secondly, both of their fathers are twirling lances back-to-back, looking completely in their element.

Thirdly, _magic_ is a thing, apparently. Actual magic. 

There’s far more that’s confusing him than those simple things, but those can be tabled for another time. He should probably focus on getting out of this disaster of a warehouse first. 

Sylvain presses down on the earpiece that Felix had shoved at him, “Hello?”

“ _—gonna kill him when—_ ” The audio crackles, “ _Oh! Hi, Sylvain! It’s Annette._ ”

“How am I getting out of here? It’s a madhouse,” Sylvain asks, ducking back behind his pillar of safety as another one of those magic spell things flies over his head. 

“ _I’ll talk you through it. You do exactly as I say when I say it, and you’ll be fine. I’m in the cameras.”_

Sylvain opens his mouth to question _why_ there are operational cameras in an abandoned warehouse because that doesn’t make any sense, only to instead yelp as another spell goes flying inches from him. He supposes that he’ll have to get quippy later.

“ _When I say, sprint for the pillar at your five o’clock,”_ There’s barely a pause long enough between her words for Sylvain to even process her instructions as he spins in that direction, “ _Go!”_

From there on out, it feels more like a bad obstacle course instead of a warzone, running and ducking and moving at Annette’s command. Somewhere across the way, a blur rips through the wizard people, and he can only assume that’s Felix. He’d lost sight of their fathers after his initial glimpse, and he doesn’t exactly have the time to spare looking for them. 

“ _DOWN!”_

He doesn’t react fast enough—just a fraction of a moment too late as the magic rips into his right side, skimming across his ribs and rippling pain through him. Some noise escapes him as his vision whites out for a moment, immediately clutching the wound at his side as he stumbles to his knees behind some kind of structure, dots dancing in his vision. Fuck, that hurts.

“ _—vain. Sylvain. Sylvain! Come on, Ingrid’s almost there!”_

It takes every bit of strength to stumble to his feet, and every bit of willpower not to look down and try to see the extent of the damage. He doesn’t want to know what it looks like if what it _feels_ like is any indication. 

_"Oh, Goddess, the League is here now. Sylvain, Ingrid’s on her way in.”_

Ingrid? What does Ingrid have to do with any of this?

How many secrets are his friends hiding from him?

His vision blurs as a head of blonde hair runs towards him, and Sylvain recognizes her anywhere. Ingrid is here—which means everything will be fine.

Relief washes over him, just before his vision finally goes black. 


	3. part iii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry if this sucks i wrote this in like .4 seconds  
> also yayy updated tags

“Marianne embroidered this mask for me, you know. She’s gonna be _so mad_ that I got blood all over it! This is all your fault, Claude.”

“Hilda, darling, if she minded you getting blood on it, she wouldn’t have made it into a mask.”

It’s a fucking party down here now. 

There are enough bodies shoved in his workspace that Felix wants to scream and demand they all leave, vacate the one place that he feels secure in. Instead, every single one of his fairweather allies is gathered in his space, bickering without care as Byleth heals up the nasty wound some dark mage left on Sylvain. 

Just thinking about it makes him bristle with anger.

Felix had nearly bitten off Rodrigue’s hand when he’d reached for his side, white glyph at the ready to cast Heal. He barely tolerates the man’s presence, and would rather unwisely drown himself in Elixirs before he lets his magic touch him. His pettiness knows no bounds. 

Instead, he lets the warm _zing_ of Lysithea’s Heal wash over him, knuckles gripped tight against the table as she extracts whatever’s left of the dark magic still lingering in him. It’s not her specialty, but Marianne had chosen to stay at the monastery, and so he’s stuck with the prickly mage instead. Her white magic has always felt different, a tad too cold compared to the wash of warmth it usually is, like getting shocked over and over again from static electricity.

Part of him had missed the disjointed group—missed having competent sparring partners and a group of people who had seen every part of him and didn’t mind how ugly it was. They weren’t a warm and fuzzy group by any means, but there was a certain type of bond you needed to have with someone to trust them in a battle. 

But that hadn’t changed the fact that it had been time to go home. Most of them didn’t know anything besides the halls of Garreg Mach, didn’t have any kind of ties outside of the place. Felix did. And when they’d called, he’d come running.

“Hold still, Felix! Unless you _want_ me to heal something wrong…” Lysithea snips, glyph flaring brighter in her annoyance.

Felix grumbles and stops his fidgeting, averting his eyes to the floor—and snapping them straight back up when he hears his belt sander whir to life. “Riegan if you touch _one_ of my arrowheads, I will dismember you.”

Claude raises a brow and grabs an arrowhead from Felix’s box of unfinished ones, lifting it in clear view of the swordsman. He feels his brow twitch.

“Enough,” Byleth cuts in, “both of you.”

They both shut their mouths like well-chastised children and the belt sander goes silent. Byleth stands straight and moves Sylvain’s shirt back to cover up the bit of scarring left from the wound. Despite the number of people down here, it all goes deathly silent when Byleth speaks, turning to face the battered group.

“Fortunately for all of you, it’s more convenient for us to clean up your mess rather than get rid of it. Next time will be a different story.” Byleth’s words ring through the room, sharp in their intention. 

They focus their gaze on Felix, eyes as cold and cutting as they always are, “Walking into a trap in broad daylight was idiotic. We expect more of you than that.” 

Their eyes slide over to Rodrigue and Atticus, “Fhirdiad is not your playground. Attempt something as foolish as that again and you will be put down. Crest-bearers or not.”

“I’m sorry, this was planned?”

The words burst from Ingrid, who’s otherwise remained silent since their unwelcome visitors had started filing in. “You’re telling me that destroying that warehouse in broad daylight and getting Sylvain and Felix both hurt was _planned_?”

“These two believed they could lure Thales into the open. Instead, they placed targets on all of our backs,” Byleth’s eyes meet Felix’s, “Fhirdiad isn’t secure anymore. You’re coming to Garreg Mach.”

Felix stops breathing for a moment. 

He can’t imagine abandoning Fhirdiad—can’t imagine abandoning the long nights cleaning up the streets and hazy brunches with his friends, giving up all of that for the stone brick and quiet of Garreg Mach once again. 

Not too long ago, it had been exactly what he’d needed. He’d needed the monotony and steadfastness lest he loses himself to the _rage_ and _despair_ that had been threatening to consume him then, pounding in his chest to the rhythm of Glenn’s name. 

“Felix isn’t going anywhere.”

It’s Annette, who stands from her chair in defiance. There’s something violent in the way she holds herself, unflinchingly meeting the eyes of the Ashen Demon. 

“He’s doing some real good in Fhirdiad, and we’re close to cracking Agarthan. Just a bit more and we can topple the entire corporation.” Annette fires, taking a half step in Byleth’s direction. “Without him, all of this falls apart. _That_ is how you’re going to end up with more incidents like this.”

Felix resists the urge to pull her behind him as Byleth tilts their head in that predatory fashion of theirs as if debating whether to maul her apart or let her go. It’s never been more unsettling, “Annette Dominic… I wonder…” 

They make a contemplative noise and turn back to Felix, “Very well. But should any more incidents like this arise, we will not extend this courtesy again. You would do well to remember where your loyalties lie, and who holds the upper hand.” 

Lysithea’s hands fall away, leaving behind only the minor scarring of what one would assume to be a burn wound, if not for the dark grey faultlines beneath his skin. “That’s all I can do for you. You let it fester, so you’ll have to live with it.”

He lets go where he’s been clutching the hem of his shirt, the wrinkled fabric falling away to cover up the mark over his ribs. Just another one to add to the ever-growing collection, he supposes. His side still aches, but at least he’s not bent over in pain anymore. He’ll take what he can get. 

“If you’re going to take on Agarthan, someone should down here learn some Heal spells,” Lysithea pats his shoulder, somehow managing to be condescending despite being a whole head shorter than him. It’d annoy him more if it was anyone besides Lysithea. 

Felix merely nods and closes his eyes, tilting his head towards the ceiling as footsteps begin to trail out of his sanctuary. The air feels a bit less stuffy once the League has departed. 

“Rodrigue?”

His eyes lazily peak open, watching the way that Annette’s brow furrows as she rolls her bottom lip between her teeth. _Ah, that’s her thinking face_.

“Yes, Miss Dominic?” Rodrigue is ever so polite, unfazed despite having been berated by one of the most lethal people on the continent. 

“Would you be willing to teach me? Healing, that is.”

Felix’s eyes fully open in surprise as he takes the moment to observe her—the ever-present resolve held in her shoulders, partnered with the determination set in her jaw. 

Rodrigue is silent for a few moments, surprise etched infinitesimally in his features, only noticeable if you knew him well. “I would be. I think you’ll find that you have... quite the aptitude for it.”

—

Sylvain can’t stop staring at it. His new and only scar, that is. 

It crawls across his waist and over his ribcage, creeping up towards his sternum before abruptly stopping as if there had been a physical barrier placed there to prevent it from spreading. The skin is roughly textured beneath his touch, veins underneath lined with an unnatural grey. 

The scar is the only proof that he hadn’t hallucinated the entire kidnapping and warehouse battle—that it was _real_ , despite whatever bullshit spewed from his father’s mouth. He wasn’t an idiot. Perhaps a little dense sometimes, and airheaded when he wanted to be, but not an idiot. 

There’s new security around the manor too, armed to the teeth and constantly patrolling. Sylvain can hardly leave the house without seeing at least six on his way out, and it’s unsettling. His memory is spotty, sure—consisting mainly of Felix holding a sword and a searing pain in his side—but it’s still intact, and he’s not crazy. 

Sylvain backs away from the mirror and picks up his phone, finger hovering hesitantly over the call button next to Felix’s name. It’s more likely than not that it’ll go to voicemail but… he has to try, at least. And Felix won’t lie to him, even if the truth is ugly. At least, Felix from six years ago wouldn’t have.

But he doesn’t _know_ this new Felix. At least, not one that wields a bow and arrow and effortlessly slashes through people with a sword. There’s no telling how much lying he’s done, or if he’d continue to lie straight to his face even now. 

But even so.

The phone rings three times and stops halfway through the fourth. There’s a humming noise in the background, like a generator or something else vaguely industrial, “ _What do you want, Sylvain?_ ”

All of his witty responses— _Picked up archery recently?_ or _Do you believe in magic?_ —leave him at that moment. The prickliness doesn’t escape him, but if Felix didn’t want to talk, he just wouldn’t have picked up the call. Sylvian at least knows that much.

He swallows, “Wanna get some late lunch? My treat.”

There’s a beat of silence, a strange moment of contemplation. Felix works in absolutes and without hesitation, always has. The brief moment of hesitance nearly makes Sylvain take back his offer, panic settling in. The last thing he needs to do is alienate him. 

“ _I'_ _m busy today._ ”

His heart sinks into the floor, “Oh, okay then. Sorry, I didn’t—”

“ _I can do tomorrow. Noon at the Duscur place on Seiros._ ”

Sylvain nearly chokes on his relief, grip tightening on his phone. “Yeah, yeah, tomorrow works great. I’ll be there. Early, even.”

Felix makes a little noise on the other end. Amusement? Exasperation? Sylvain can’t tell anymore. “ _Don’t make promises you can’t keep. I’ll see you then.”_

He barely gets out his own farewell before the line goes dead. 

It occurs to him that he has the entire day to himself—even though he’s not too keen to go anywhere alone, and he’d nearly fainted trying to sit in the driver’s seat of the car he’d been driving when… when it had all happened. A glance up at the clock tells him it’s early afternoon.

Maybe he was better off searching for his own answers.

—

Magic is _fascinating_ , Annette finds.

Rodrigue had lent her a Moleskine notebook, well-worn and faded along the edges, on the one condition that she lives it in the basement. Not that it was top secret or particularly secure anymore since it seemed that everyone and their mother had learned about the place. 

The entire thing is filled cover-to-cover in meticulous, painstakingly translated, and copied magic theory, interspersed with complicated glyphs and diagrams. It somehow made the whole thing sound simultaneously both mechanical and intuitive. She’d have to brush up on her anatomy first and foremost, and she definitely has an entire laundry list of questions for Rodrigue once she sees him again, but she’s committed herself to at least finishing the book before she gets ahead of herself. 

She’s turned her chair away from her usual digital workspace and instead sits at the table—the one that’s been covered in both Felix’s and Sylvain’s blood, previously, and the perch of too many powerful weapons for her to count. Today, though, it’s covered in sheets of paper as she takes notes, a whole array of colored pens splayed out before her. 

It’s been hours, she’s sure, if only because she can tell by the way her neck and shoulders ache. It’s nothing new, she is an IT gremlin after all, but that doesn’t make it any more pleasant. Even so, it’s a small price to pay for the knowledge she’s soaking up now. It’s her big weakness.

Her concentration is only broken by the sound of Felix’s phone clattering onto his other work table, where he’s been sharpening and maintenancing his weapons for as long as she’s been here which is… a long time. The watch on her wrist tells her it’s been at least five hours since she’d wandered down the stairs. 

“What’d your phone do to you?” She quips, sitting up straight and stretching her arms above her head. Her neck and shoulders both crack with the movement.

The repetitive sound of steel sliding over whetstone starts up again, “Sylvain called.”

She leans back in her chair and pulls her legs underneath her, finally taking a look at him. 

Felix looks so… tired. It’s not a usual look on him, and one she’s only seen from that incident months ago when she’d left the team for a bit. It’s only visible in the bags under his eyes and the tension in his shoulders, held impossibly straight even as he sharpens his sword.

“What did he say?” She continues, reaching up a hand to push up her sliding glasses and tuck an errant bang behind her ear. 

“He asked if I wanted to get lunch.” Annette stays silent as he sets down the sword and whetstone. “I don’t know what he does and doesn’t remember.”

Traumatic injuries do weird things to people, and that was without any magic involved. No one knew exactly what Sylvain had been hit with, and if Byleth had surmised anything from when they’d healed him, they’d neglected to share it. 

The thought of Byleth makes her temper flare. It’s an effort to shove it down. This isn’t about her, or the way her heart had stuttered when they’d commanded that Felix just _leave_ them. It’s not about that. 

She picks up her mug of tea, though it’s long gone cold by now, “Do you think it’s a good idea to try and keep it from him?”

Felix still doesn’t look at her, staring off into the distance with a faraway look in his eyes. “No. If he asks, I’ll tell him.”

Her finger twitches with the urge to physically pull him back from wherever he’s wandered off—a quick tug of the wrist or a poke in the shoulder. Instead, she stands from her chair and closes up Rodrigue’s notebook, along with all of her own notes. It’s a soothing task. 

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m getting hungry, and we’ve both been down here too long. Care to venture to the surface with me?” 

It’s not particularly well-crafted fib. It’s a well-known fact that both she and Felix could lose themselves in their various projects for hours, only remembering to do things like eat and sleep and go home when reminded by an exasperated Ingrid, who isn’t here now. 

Still, she can tell that Felix is willing to indulge her in the way that the tension in his shoulders falls away, replaced instead by what most would assume to be resignation. Annette recognizes it as the exasperation reserved for Ingrid and herself. 

His eyes finally meet hers, though only for a moment before they dart away and over her shoulder, “I suppose.”

Annette stands in spite of the way her back protests and goes through the familiar motions of slinging on her purse and exchanging her slippers for shoes again. She’s about to shut off the lights at the base of the stairs when she realizes that Felix, well, hasn’t moved. “Felix?”

He shakes himself out of whatever funk he’s in and grabs his jacket off the wall, “Let’s go.”

She lets him move past her while she flicks off the light switches, leaning her shoulder against the wall as he starts to ascend the stairs, muscles shifting beneath his shirt under the softer lights that cast over the staircase. 

He turns over his shoulder and raises a silent brow, causing her to push herself off the wall and come up to stand beside him. 

It’ll be nice to distract themselves for an hour, at least.

—

It’s been a long time since he’s been in Fhirdiad.

He’d forgotten what it felt like—the bitter wind that cuts across his cheeks, the tall structures of the financial district that loomed high above them all. Some things had changed, certainly, but it was the same city that he’d always known. 

Memories elude him, coming and going as it pleases no matter how hard he tries to cling to them. But that damn boat never leaves him. He remembers his father’s resignation, the steely look in his eyes as he had clutched his shoulders and demanded that he _listen_. Those words are forever ingrained in him, as permanent as the scar where his eye used to be. 

He doesn’t remember. _He doesn’t remember_. The last six years seems like a haze, and his grip on reality is still shaky at best. There are calluses on his hand that he doesn’t recognize and a newfound strength that he hadn’t possessed before. Whatever counted as ‘before,’ anyway. 

His own name is a mystery to him, now. Sometimes it’ll be there right on the cusp of his memory, brushing up against the edges of his mind as he desperately, desperately tries to cling onto it. What he does remember after the boat sank is next to nothing, locked somewhere behind a gate he doesn’t have the key to. 

But something had brought him to Fhirdiad. He doesn’t know what, or perhaps who, but the building he stands in front of now in the dead of night rings true. He thinks he remembers it. In his mind, he sees it in broad daylight—the letters lit up brightly as people filed in and out of the spinning glass doors in a constant stream, ever so content to go about their way. 

He allows himself one more glance at the name, ingraining it into his memory before he turns away.

_Blaiddyd Industries._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next time: "phantoms and fallacies"  
> guess who's finally making his appearance :)

**Author's Note:**

> catch me on tumblr @feyreofthewildfire  
> you can also catch me lurking on both the felannie and sylvix servers cause i live in multi-shipping hell


End file.
